


Funny story...

by Eldalire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, les mis
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cannon Era, Cute, Fluffy, Humor, Modern Era, Multi, multiple AUs, one shots, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one shots, all based around funny AU ideas and prompts I found floating around the internet.  All of them about the funny ways people meet each other or silly little OTP ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remember that time in the Grocery Store?

**Author's Note:**

> All of the stories take place in different times, places, universes, worlds, etc, so none of them are really connected. All of them are true one-shots.
> 
> If you find any prompts/aus you find enchanting, do send them and I'll write something up with them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Wow you're that guy who helped me find my mom in the grocery store when we were like five nice to see you again!"

            “Hey how come you’re crying?” Grantaire asked the very young boy sitting in the middle of the cereal isle of the grocery store.  He had a mop of curly blonde hair that made him look like a small, unhappy dandelion.  He looked up, but said nothing, his lip trembling and his big blue eyes filled with tears.

            “How come you’re crying?” Grantaire asked again, crouching beside the little boy. At only six himself, he wasn’t quite sure what to do in such a delicate situation.  The little boy suddenly stood and fell into Grantaire, sobbing into his shirt.  Grantaire was startled, but held him anyway.

            “I can’t find Mommy.” The little boy replied, sniffling.  Grantaire rubbed his little back through his red overalls and white t shirt.

            “How about I help you find your mommy, okay?” Grantaire offered as the little boy latched onto him, still crying.  “Hey How about we find your mommy, okay?” he said again.  The little boy nodded into his shirt again. “Well let’s go, huh?” the little boy didn’t move.  Grantaire sighed and hoisted the very small boy onto his back and began his trek through the grocery store.

            “What’s your name?” Grantaire asked as they cleared the cereal isle, making their way parallel to the isles and looking down each one for the boy’s mother.

            “ejras” he mumbled into Grantaire’s shoulder.

            “Huh?” Grantaire asked, stopping and placing the little boy onto the tile floor. He took his hand instead and they continued walking.

            “Enjolras.” He said again, a frown and deep sorrow visible in his little round face, his cheeks puffy and red from crying.

            “I’m Grantaire.” He replied with a little smile.  “Do you know what your mommy looks like, Enjolras?” he asked. Enjolras thought very hard.

            “Purple.” He said after a moment.  Grantaire giggled.

            “Your mommy isn’t purple!”

            “No this!” Enjolras attempted to elaborate, grabbing at his own little white t shirt sleeve.

            “Oh her shirt is purple!  What about her hair?  Is it yellow like you?” he asked.  Enjolras put his little hand into his hair and rubbed it around in his curls.  Grantaire chuckled quietly again.

            “No her hair is like you.  But not bumpy.” He explained.

            “Not curly you mean?” Grantaire asked.  Enjolras nodded.  “Long or short?”

            “Like this.” Enjolras said, tapping on Grantaire’s shoulder.

            “To her shoulders?” Enjolras nodded, his pipe curls bouncing. Okay.  Let’s keep looking down the rows, okay?”  Enjolras nodded, shoving his little thumb into his mouth and sucking, looking around as Grantaire dutifully inspected each isle. He stopped short when Enjolras suddenly halted. 

            “What is it?” Grantaire asked.  “Did you see her?”  Enjolras released Grantaire’s hand—so as not to busy his sucking thumb—and pointed to a display of small milk cartons in the dairy section.  “That’s milk.” Grantaire explained.  Enjolras bent his little chubby arm and pointed again, his overall strap falling over his shoulder.  “What?” Grantaire asked.

            “Milk.” Enjolras said shortly before replacing his thumb.

            “You want milk?”  Enjolras nodded once, and Grantaire hurried to the small display, taking a carton and handing it to the toddler.  Enjolras took it gratefully with a  small, sweet smile, and continued walking beside Grantaire.  He stopped again shortly, however, tugging at the top flap of the carton.

            “Open?” he asked, holding the carton to Grantaire.

            “Um…I’ll try…” Grantaire said, pulling at the carton himself for a long moment before finally tugging it open, a small splash of milk falling to the floor, startling him.  Grantaire handed the carton back to Enjolras and hurried the little boy away from the milk puddle; he didn’t want to get into any trouble.

            Enjolras drank his milk with both hands, stopping every time he needed a sip, and together they made their way through the supermarket.

            Finally, a tall woman with dark curly hair stopped in front of them and knelt down.

            “Oh Grantaire, there you are!  You scared me, sweetie!” she cooed.  “Who’s this?”

            “This is Enjolras and he can’t find his mommy.” Grantaire told his own mother. Enjolras shied away, but Grantaire’s mother picked him up, milk carton and all, and began walking.

            “Well we’ll have to find her, won’t we, sweetie?” she asked Enjolras as he sat in her arms, blinking his big, watery eyes.  Grantaire followed.

            “He said she’s wearing a purple shirt and has brown straight hair that goes down to here.” Grantaire said, poking at his own shoulder.

            “I’m sure we’ll find her in just a minute, Enjolras.  I like your hair.” She said in an attempt to comfort the baby, who had started to cry quietly again, sipping his milk, a little dribble appearing on his overalls. 

            As promised, Enjolras’ mother was spotted less than five minutes later, frantically searching the cereal isle for her little boy. When she spotted him with Grantaire’s mother, she ran to him and picked him up, nearly in tears.

            “Oh baby I’m so sorry.” She said quietly to him, kissing his golden hair. “I was so scared I thought someone took him!   Thank you so much!” she said to Grantaire’s mother, who smiled.

            “Don’t thank me!  My little Grantaire found him and helped him more than I did!” she replied.  Grantaire beamed.  It wasn’t often he did something worthy of so much praise.

            “Thank you, Grantaire.  You are very kind.” She smiled.  “Oh Enjolras, where did you get this?” she asked with a smile, noting Enjolras’ nearly empty carton of milk. Grantaire’s cheeks flushed pink.

            “He said he wanted milk…sorry.” He explained.  Enjolras’ mother laughed.

            “You were very sweet to find him some!  Thank you again, both of you!  I can’t thank you enough.”

            “Any time.  I’m just glad everyone is safe and where they belong!  Nice to meet you, Enjolras!” Grantaire’s mother said with a soft smile and a wave to the toddler.  Enjolras waved back, one thumb in his mouth, his milk gone.

            “Bye Enjolras!” Grantaire cooed, waving.  Enjolras giggled as he opened and closed his little hand in a wave.

 

—o0o—

 

Fifteen years later

 

Grantaire was sitting at the window table, all alone, an empty coffee mug his only company at the table for two. He was supposed to meet a girl at 8:00 for morning coffee, but it was 9:30 now, and he had finally come to terms with the fact that he had been stood up.  He sighed, getting ready to stand to go, when the bell on the door rang. He turned to see if, by some off chance, his date had arrived, but it was not so.  Instead of her pin-straight, dark hair, a flash of golden curls passed, walking to the counter purposefully and ordering a small tea to go.

            A memory stirred in Grantaire.  That hair. He had seen it before, and it wasn’t the sort of hair that you see everywhere.  Yes, there were other people with blonde curls, but none as radiant as his perfectly curling pipes.  But where did he know him from?  Someone he had dated? A kid from elementary school? A model from his university? No…Who was he?

            The thin, blonde man turned towards the door with his paper cup of tea, but as he passed Grantaire, he seemed to hesitate, bowing his eyebrows.

            “Excuse me,” he said lightly yet powerfully, seeming to take control. He stood up very straight, Grantaire noted, the sleeves of his red jacket pressed and precise, his shoulders pulled back—he stood the way mothers told their children to stand in church, but it seemed natural for him, and Grantaire couldn’t help but find him terribly attractive.

            “Yes?” Grantaire replied, somewhat sadly.  He had just been stood up, after all.

            “I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” the blonde man asked.

            “No. No not at all. I’ve just been stood up, so I’ve got nothing going on.” Grantaire replied bitterly, flicking at the side of his coffee mug, making a soft ‘chink!’ with every tap.

            “I’m sorry…” the blonde man continued.  Grantaire’s heart fluttered—he seemed so genuine, like he actually cared.

            “Don’t worry about it.  What were you saying?” Grantaire asked.  He really just wanted the young man to keep talking, his voice sugary and smooth, like real buttercream frosting.

            “Oh, right…I just…I saw you and I couldn’t help but think I’ve met you before…I just can’t seem to put my finger on where.”  Grantaire smiled lightly.

            “That’s weird.  I thought the same thing. Well…more about your hair than about you, honestly, but--!” Grantaire replied.  The blonde man laughed.  His laugh was just as intoxicating as the rest of him.  “Why don’t you sit down?”

            “Are you sure?  I don’t want to intrude—”

            “No please.  I have to figure out where we know each other from now!” Grantaire chuckled.  The young man blushed lightly and sat, sipping his tea.

            “Most people remember me by my hair…I suppose it’s a bit unusual.” The young man said with a smile, playing with one of the piping curls at the end of his long ponytail.

            “It’s not unusual,” Grantaire said, “It’s…It’s really beautiful. It’s tough to forget things that you think are beautiful.” He slapped himself internally.  What the hell was he saying?!  That sounded like some cheesy line from the Notebook or something. Ew.  Well, there goes any chance of that turning into a date. But the young man only smiled.

            “Thank you.” he said, “You should see it first thing in the morning. I think deplorable would be a better adjective for it.” Grantaire grinned as well.  “Ugh I’m sorry.  I’m Enjolras.” The young man said, offering Grantaire his willowy hand across the table.

            “Grantaire.” He replied, shaking firmly.

            “Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, bowing those perfect eyebrows again. “Grantaire…This is going to sound so strange, but I distinctly remember being lost in a supermarket when I was three or four, and a boy named Grantaire helped me find my mother.”

            “Holy shit that’s where I know you from!” Grantaire suddenly burst, smiling giddily. “I do not believe it! I got you a carton of milk and spilled it all over!  Why do I remember this so well all of a sudden?”

            “Memory is funny like that, isn’t it?” Enjolras smiled, laughing.

            “Well, nice to see you again, I guess!  Need help finding your mommy?” Grantaire offered.

            “I do not.  But thank you for the offer!” Enjolras replied, his bright eyes crinkling with his grin. “However I do have a counter-offer.” He added after a moment.

            “Are you a lawyer?” Grantaire asked sarcastically.

            “Maybe! But do you want to hear my offer or not?!”

            “What? What is your offer, Sir Lawyer?”

            “I would like to offer to pay for your coffee and invite you to dinner tonight.” Enjolras blushed.

            “It’s alright.  You don’t have to feel bad for me—”

            “It’s not because I feel sorry for you.” Enjolras clarified with a meek smile.

            “I’ll take that offer, then.” Grantaire replied.


	2. The Chance Meeting of Feuilly and Jehan Prouvaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Selectively mute Jehan head-cannon

It was raining very hard when Jean Prouvaire left the library.  His already-worn boots becoming muddier by the second, water seeping in through the hole under his toes. He tried his best to hurry, but he was a rather small person, despite being a fully-grown young man, and he was carrying his weight in books on poetry and art history. 

The stack of heavy leather-bound volumes made it impossible for him to see directly in front of himself, and he gasped when he felt his entire left foot plummet into a pothole filled with freezing rain water.  His boot was completely soaked through in a moment, and even the cuff of his trousers was wet, though they were far too short for him.  The water wicked up the thin material, the cold water climbing all the way up to his knee.

Jehan stood for a long moment, his foot in the puddle, in an attempt to collect himself. He used his shoulder to push a strand of his sopping reddish hair out of his face, and flipped his long braid back over his shoulder, all of the flowers he had woven in that morning had long since washed away in the deluge. 

After a long moment and a calming deep breath, Jehan continued, stepping carefully out of the puddle so as not to trip himself, and continued on his way, his left boot completely filled with water, making an unpleasant sort of slapping sound on the cobblestone street.

Despite the rain, the streets of Paris were bustling, and many people passed him by, none of them offering help, most of them laughing.  Jehan was not typical or average in any way, and it was clear to see why he was ridiculed almost constantly.  He was a young man of nineteen, but his stature and petite frame suggested that of a sixteen year old girl.  His long red hair did not help his case, even though it was usually tied back in a braid. He dressed terribly, in hand-me-down clothes that were either a few sizes too small or many sizes too large, and was very fond of writing poetry and keeping to himself.  He was also a selective mute, and hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides his skinny orange cat in years.

He thought of her—his cat—then, as he continued plodding down the street towards the little book shop he resided above, but he was still almost a mile away when his horrid day made yet another turn for the worse.  A massive coach pulled by two magnificent horses powered past, the huge wooden wheels splashing in a gutter puddle at the same moment Jehan walked past on the sidewalk. The splash soaked him further, the mix of water a mud permeating his very soul, pushing away the flowers and sunshine that usually resided there.  He used his body to shield his armful of borrowed books, and his already ragged clothes were completely ruined.  The dirt and sand from the street tangled in his hair.  A group of  bourgeois passing by under umbrellas laughed heartily as they passed poor Jehan on the cobblestone sidewalk.  He felt tears burning behind his pretty green eyes, and was, for once, pleased that it was raining so that nobody would see his misery.  But not ten steps later, he found himself toppled over in a puddle, flat on his face thanks to the foot of a young boy, hoping for a laugh.

When Jehan sat up on his knees to inspect the damage, he found that all of his library books were scattered, the pages loose and sopping wet, disintegrating before his eyes. He tried to collect them, but his hands were scraped and bleeding, caked with gravel and mud. He covered his face with his hands, hopeless, and simply sat until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Could I be of assistance, Monsieur?” a tall man asked, his hair blonde and tied back in a neat ponytail.  He offered Jehan his hand with a smile.  Jehan’s eyes widened and he shied away, fearful of another mean trick, and simply looked at the man; he, too wore a second-hand jacket and vest, but unlike Jehan, his trousers came down to the proper length and a cravat sat tied around his neck.

“At the very least allow me to help with your books.” The man continued, crouching down and collecting Jehan’s things, placing the wet pages back into their respective covers carefully, stacking them and standing again.  He was strong, far stronger than tiny Jehan, and was able to hold the stack of books in one arm while offering Jehan his hand.  He took it this time, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He wanted to thank the man; he really did, but he could not bring himself to speak.  He never could.

“Come I live very nearby. I will lend you some clean clothes and you may go when the storm has passed.  I’m Feuilly.” Jehan looked up at him, desperately hoping that he would understand; that he would realize Jehan did not speak and would not pry. He managed to muster a smile in return, and that seemed enough for Feuilly, who started down the street towards his own small apartment above a framing shop.

“It isn’t very much, but it’s home.  I make and sell fans, so this is just about all I can afford…But it’s warm and I have a bed and a stove.” He smiled.  Jehan looked around. It was very small, but it was also charming, with its fireplace and single table and chair beside the window. The room was surprisingly well lit, despite the downpour, and many candles created a happy glow. There was little in the way of furniture—only a single armchair and a small bed besides the dining table and chair—but Jehan still found it cozy and inviting.  With a few flowers it may even be beautiful, he thought.

“Please sit. I’ll fetch you something dry to wear.” Feuilly insisted, peeling off his own wet wool jacket and hanging it on the back of the dining chair.  He hurried over to a small closet beside the bed and retrieved an old poet sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers.  He handed them to Jehan when he finished taking off his soaking socks and boots, placing them in front of the fireplace to dry out.  “This may been too large for you, but it’s the smallest I have. I apologize.”  Jehan took the clothing gratefully, gazing up at his savior with shining eyes.  “I’ll give you a bit of privacy and start a cup of tea.” He smiled, turning towards the small stove and away from Jehan. 

He changed quickly and quietly, hanging his things up on the mantle.  Feuilly’s clothes were massive on Jehan’s small, girlish body, but they were dry, and for that, he was thankful.

“May I ask your name? If you don’t mind.” Feuilly asked he poured two teacups.  Jehan ran his hand across his right clavicle, where he had his name tattooed in light curling letters.  When he was around eleven, his father was killed in an attempt to stop an intruder from entering their home.  Jehan witnessed the entire incident. He had seen his father shot in the head before the man next door came to their rescue.  That was when Jehan stopped speaking regularly. At sixteen, Jehan had grown frustrated with himself being unable to communicate, and decided it would be a worthwhile endeavor to at least find a way to introduce himself.

Now the trouble was getting Feuilly to look over at him for his unorthodox introduction.

“u-um…” he mumbled quietly, peering over the back of the ripped armchair in an attempt to get Feuilly’s attention, but he didn’t seem to hear.  Jehan pressed his lips into a tight line, blushing.  When Feuilly approached with his cup of tea, Jehan took the opportunity to show him, and pulled down his collar, exposing the script on his clavicle. 

“ _Jehan Prouvaire_.” Feuilly read.  “That is your name?”  Jehan gave a very small smile in reply before taking the teacup gratefully.

“There isn’t anything in it…I brought sugar, but there is very little…I apologize. I haven’t been able to afford it.” He smiled.  Jehan’s smile widened as Feuilly pulled over the wooden dining chair, allowing Jehan to sit on the larger armchair.  Jehan stood anyhow, meaning to give Feuilly the more comfortable seat.

“Oh no. You are my guest. Please sit.” Feuilly smiled, taking Jehan’s skinny shoulder in his large hand and guiding him back down. Jehan expected himself to shy away from the touch, but he found himself enjoying it instead. He hadn’t allowed himself much physical contact in his adult life, though he longed for it. It was simply too difficult to find someone who would accept him, and being unable to explain himself only made it worse. 

He could not express his feelings in words, but he could show it.  He placed his own thin, willowy hand over Feuilly’s own his shoulder and smiled up at him meekly.  Feuilly replied by brushing a stray strand of reddish hair off Jehan’s forehead, leaving a muddy streak behind.  Jehan leaned into the touch, hoping to convey interest.  Feuilly was one of the few people who was immediately kind to him, without needing an explanation or introduction, and truthfully, Jehan was completely taken with him.

“Jehan would you care for a shower?  The water closet is very small, but you will get the mud out of your hair.” He offered with a small smile of his own.  Jehan stood slowly and allowed Feuilly to show him to the very small bathroom just around the corner from the bed.

“You may keep the clothes. Hang them here until you are done.” He showed Jehan the hook on the back of the door.  Feuilly left him, then, closing the door and leaving Jehan to himself.  He sighed, but smiled as well, pulling the lightweight shirt over his head and crossing his arms over his chest, giving himself a sort of hug.  He hadn’t had this much hope in a long time.

 

Feuilly sat down in the armchair, waiting for Jehan to finish washing.  He felt a sort of guilt strumming his heartstrings.  He had seen the young man many times from the window of his little apartment, carrying his stack of books to and from the library, occasionally with a scraggly looking orange cat perched on his shoulder.  He had seen Jehan Prouvaire trip over his own, worn out shoes, he’d seen him have his money stolen out of his bag and chase the young pickpocket down the street before giving up and turning to continue home.  He had witnessed the cruelty shown to Jehan by other men, young and old, and watched how eloquently Jehan brushed their words away, walking with his eyes cast upward to the sky, or down towards the flowers growing under fences on the side of the road.  And as he watched, he began to fall a little bit in love.

            His daydreaming was interrupted by a startled little yelp from the bathroom just as the water erupted from the finicky spout.  Feuilly hurried to the door, knocking before opening it in a panic. He found Jehan cowering away from the shower, backed into the corner, wearing only Feuilly’s far-too-large knickers, his hair and upper body wet with shower water.  Feuilly smiled.

            “It can be temperamental.” He explained with a chuckle, giving the spigot a whack and turning the knob on the pipe.  The water pressure returned to a reasonable spray.  Jehan blushed and looked away, smiling meekly to himself. Feuilly left him again, and this time, Jehan was successful, returning to the main living space a few minutes later, his braid neat and damp, his face rosy and clean.  Feuilly found the way his sleeve fell from his shoulder endearing, and couldn’t help but be drawn once again to his name, written in that curling script on his collarbone.

            “That must feel much better.” Feuilly smiled as Jehan crossed the small, single room apartment and looked out the window.  The sky had not cleared.  In fact, the rain had blown into quite the storm.  Lightening lit the sky in a flash, followed by a rumble of thunder that made Jehan jump.  He could hear the gunfire in that thunder.  He could see the flash from the shot in the lightening.  How he abhorred thunderstorms.

            He returned to the armchair and sat with a sigh, crossing his arms around himself and holding his elbows tightly in his hands, pulling his bare feet up and sitting with his legs crossed.

            “You must read very often.” Feuilly said after a long moment, looking to the books laying in front of the fire to dry out.  Jehan looked up at Feuilly and gave a small, affirmative nod. “I see you walking…that must sound very strange…I apologize.”  Jehan smiled, standing and taking Feuilly’s hands in his own.  Feuilly joined him standing, and pulled him into a hug, which Jehan eagerly returned.  “If you don’t mind me saying, I must admit that, the more I’ve seen you walking past, the more I’ve…I seem to have become enamored.” Jehan looked up at him and blushed. In the back of his mind, though, he couldn’t help but fear.  Was this only another cruel trick?  Another foot to trip him on the sidewalk?  Another mean word as he walked by?  How could he be sure?

            He did not wonder long, for Feuilly tipped his chin up and Jehan closed the space between them, taking Feuilly’s bottom lip between his own, pulling away in hardly a second, startled.  He should not have done that.  He pulled away and turned, feeling tears behind his eyes, but Feuilly took his hands and kissed away his tears.

            “Thank you, Jehan.” Feuilly said after a long moment of silence. “I was too frightened to say anything myself…For someone who does not speak, you most certainly get your point across effectively.” Jehan smiled, running his hands down his rope-like braid. A beam of sunlight made his eyes flutter shut.  Feuilly turned to the window. The sun had returned, and was once again high in the sky, smiling upon the puddles littering the streets, offering comfort to the waterlogged flowers.

            “I suppose you’ll be heading home now, then…” Feuilly said somewhat sadly. Jehan shrugged. “You may keep the clothes, if you’d like…They’re a bit small for me.”  A lie, but Feuilly did not want to make Jehan guilty.  It was true that Feuilly was poor, and what little he had was precious, but he was willing to sacrifice a shirt and trousers for his little love, Jehan.

            They parted reluctantly at the door at the bottom of Feuilly’s stairs, Jehan once again carrying his books, smiling over his shoulder as he headed home, his own damp clothes draped over his arm.  Feuilly offered him a little wave and a smile, hopeful he would see Jehan again.

 

—o0o—

 

The next day was Sunday, and Fueilly allowed himself to sleep in before getting to work.  He had to visit the local art gallery to see how his fans were selling and collect his weekly earnings—if he had sold anything. 

            He dressed quickly and opened the door to the staircase, but stopped short when he saw a bundle of neatly folded clothes, wrapped with a ribbon and topped with an envelope and a single stalk of lily of the valley flowers. Feuilly took the entire bundle inside and set it on the table, opening the envelope carefully and reading the letter that resided within:

 

_My dearest Feuilly,_

_I apologize in advance for my lack of eloquence.  As you know I do not speak often, and even writing in my own voice has become foreign to me._

_I wanted to thank you for the kindness you so graciously showed me yesterday.  I am sure it is not difficult to see, but I have never been in such company before, and I have never felt the way that you made me feel. I do hope I will find myself in your company again, and to assure that our paths do cross, I would like to invite you to the Musain on the morning of the fifteenth.  Tea on me._

_Yours most gratefully,_

_Jehan Prouvaire~_

Feuilly smiled.


	3. I'm Glad you Stole my Kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hey I lost my kitten and you found him" and deaf amis head-cannon

Courfeyrac had lived across the hall from the tall, gangly young man for years, but they had never really met.  In all honesty, Courfeyrac thought the guy was a little weird.  Not that Courfeyrac was judgmental; he could care less what the guy did. Whatever.  He was sort of rude, too.  He never replied when Courfeyrac tried to say hi or ask if he needed help with his groceries or anything.  He never bothered Courfeyrac especially, but he still found him just a tad bizarre, and often wondered what went on inside that oddly attractive head of his, behind his thick, round glasses. 

            The man across the hall always kept to himself.  He was quiet, no loud music, no parties—in fact, Courfeyrac had never seen him bring anyone into his apartment; no girls, no guys, nobody. Not that he was paying attention or anything.

            One day, Courfeyrac was carrying his groceries in, and nearly dropped his bags when he saw what was in his apartment.  Sitting in the middle of his floor was a small, black kitten, who appeared very distressed, making awful squeaking noises.

            “Oh…Hello.” Courfeyrac said, placing his bags down on his countertop and approaching the kitten.  He picked him up gently and headed into the kitchen, turning on the faucet and filling a small cereal bowl with water.  He set it down on the countertop and offered it to the kitten, who drank most of it in one go.

            “Thirsty, huh?” he said, wiping the moisture off the kitten’s chin with his thumb.

            “You’re a pretty cute little guy.” He cooed, holding the kitten close, letting him paw at his sweatshirt drawstring.  He set the kitten down safely in a nest of blankets on the sofa when someone knocked on the door.  He peered out, seeing who it was, and was surprised to see the weird guy from next door.

            “Hi.” Courfeyrac said with a small, awkward smile.

            “Hello, I…um…I live next door—er—across the hall and I was wondering if you’ve seen a little black cat…He seems to have gone missing and I’m horribly worried for him.”

            “Oh…um…” Courfeyrac looked over his shoulder, back into his apartment, and saw the little cat curled up on the couch, so small and cute. Yes, they had only ‘met’ half an hour ago, but already he had fallen in love with the little guy…And this guy was weird.  Too weird to have such a cute little kitten like that.  He was probably teaching it weird tricks or something…training it for the circus or his creepy cat club…Maybe he was a freaky cat guy, like freaky old cat ladies. But he did belong to the guy…Courfeyrac sighed.           Why was everything so difficult?

            “I’m sorry.  I haven’t seen him. I’ll tell you if I do, though.” He smiled.

            “I’m sorry?” he said, bowing his eyebrows.  He pointed to his ear.  “I’m hard of hearing.” Sure enough, there was a nearly invisible wire of sorts curving around his ear.  That explained being ignored…

            “Oh. I said I haven’t see the cat. Sorry.” He said more loudly. Saying it again seemed to make it more real…It made the guilt come alive within him, like an angry plant with thorns.  He wasn’t sure if he could stand it much longer.

            “Oh…Thank you.  I’m Combeferre, by the way. I’ve lived across the hall for years, but I don’t think we’ve ever really spoken.” He offered Courfeyrac his hand.

            “Yeah. Weird, huh?  I’m Courfeyrac.  Hopefully I’ll see you soon, okay?” he said, attempting to slip back inside before Combeferre could see the cat scooting around the sofa, playing with the tassel on the corner of a pillow.

            “Yes, alri—” Courfeyrac shut the door before he could finish and headed back to the kitten, picking him up and giving him a snuggle.

            “Sorry, Kitty…that was sort of mean, huh?  But that guy’s so weird!  You don’t want to hang with him…Me and you, we’ll have fun.” He smiled. The kitten let out a little mew in reply. “I think your name is Rocketship.” Courfeyrac announced with a little chuckle.

 

—o0o—

 

Days passed, and Courfeyrac had grown very close to Rocketship.  But along with his growing connection to the kitten came a growing sensation of guilt. He saw a poster taped to the wall of the hallway when he left to buy cat food.  On it was a photograph of the kitten, and underneath was written in thick black marker:  
  
Lost kitten!

 

Please call if you see or have him  
Combeferre: Apt. 32 floor three. 

Phone: 159-7285

 

Courfeyrac sighed and carried his cat food inside, the guilt finally getting the better of him.

            “Okay, Rocketship…” he said, reluctantly lifting the kitten off the sofa and walking him across the hall.  He knocked on Weird Combeferre’s door.

            “Oh hello, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre said with a smile, opening the door. “How have you been?”

            “Oh, um…fine, I just…Here,” He handed the kitten to Combeferre, who smiled broadly.

            “Oh thank you, Courfeyrac!  Where did you find him?” he asked, snuggling the kitten in the same manner Courfeyrac had.  The kitten mewed happily.

            “I…I’m sorry, Combeferre, I…I had him…I just loved him so much I couldn’t give him back, but he’s yours.  I’m sorry.” He looked down, turning to leave, but Combeferre took his shoulder.

            “You can have him if you’d like.” Combeferre said with a smile. “I was only looking for him to make sure he was safe…my cat Flora had kittens, and this one is the runt. He was the only one left.” He explained.

            “But—But I took him.  I lied.” Combeferre shrugged and pushed up his glasses.

            “It’s been three days, and you’ve kept him nice and safe…It’s alright.”

            “Are you serious?” Courfeyrac asked, gingerly taking the kitten as Combeferre handed it back to him.

            “Of course.  I mean…I do not appreciate being lied to, but as long as the little guy is safe and sound, there’s no harm done, and you seem to like him, so I want you to have him.”

            “How much do you want for him?” Courfeyrac asked.  Didn’t pets usually cost money?  He wasn’t sure.

            “Nothing. I want you to have him.”

            “No I have to give you something, that’s not fair.”

            “well…maybe you could take me out for coffee.” Combeferre suggested, his cheeks turning a rosy shade.  Courfeyrac smiled.

            “Are you asking me out?” he asked.

            “There is a chance I am doing just that, yes.” Combeferre replied, finding a bit more courage and chuckling lightly.

            “Well…Yeah. I’ll buy you a coffee. And breakfast. Tomorrow morning, okay?” Courfeyrac smiled.  Combeferre looked like he might faint, and he nodded eagerly.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.  Take good care of that kitten!  Tell me what you name him!”

            “His name is Rocketship.” Courfeyrac said with a chuckle as he crossed the hall. 

            Combeferre laughed and closed his door.  He ran to his sofa, flopped down on his front, and planted his face into a pillow, sighing happily to himself.  He had never been on a date before.

 

—o0o—

 

The next morning, Courfeyrac woke up a hour early to make sure he looked alright.  He ran a brush through his unruly, cowlick-prone hair, but he used too much gel and had to take a sink-shower to rinse it out. He wound up just letting it do its stupid curly thing…Combeferre didn’t seem like the sort of person who would care all that much how his hair looked.  But what should he wear?  A tie? To a diner?  No…He just decided to try on almost everything he owned and finally settled for a plaid button down over a t shirt.  He figured that was normal enough.  Throw on a pair of trousers and he’s ready to go! But…skinny jeans or not? He flopped down in his bed.

            “Why is this so difficult?” he asked Rocketship, who licked his face.

 

Combeferre was having a similar problem.  He hadn’t noticed before, but everything he owned screamed ‘seventy year old librarian’ and that wasn’t the vibe he was going for.  Courfeyrac was about fifty times cooler than Combeferre, (assuming that 0 cool times 50 cool doesn’t still equal 0…but does it?  Combeferre wasn’t sure) and he didn’t want him to be embarrassed by him…This was sort of a favor date anyway.  Courfeyrac might not even really like him. What reason did he have? He wore glasses, he dressed like someone who collected retirement pension, he didn’t think he was especially attractive, he blushed easily, and he couldn’t hear without hearing aids, and even then it was difficult…

            “I do hope this goes well.” He said to his cat, Flora, who snuggled up on his lap as he sat on his bed, pondering his outfit.  He stretched his arms above his head, the massive tattoo of a wax moth distorting slightly as his shoulder blades rotated. It surprised most people, but Combeferre was covered in tattoos, most of them scientific in nature. The wax moth on his back was labeled with anatomical details and Latin names and words.  A map of the major constellations dotted his upper left arm, the other arm decorated with a collection of more moths—a comet moth, an atlas moth, an apple moth, all of them labeled with their Latin names. His back also contained a map of the world made to look like a medieval drawing, complete with sea monsters and a compass rose.  But Combeferre kept them secret.  They were for him, not for others to see, and all of them could be easily covered with a t shirt, should he choose.  His gangly frame assured that he was usually freezing, however, and he opted almost exclusively for jumpers.  This spring morning was particularly chilly, and he decided to wear one of his more subdued sweaters, not wanting to scare Courfeyrac off with one of the Bill Cosby-style numbers he usually donned.  He pulled on a plain white button down for underneath, letting the cuffs and collar rest outside his sweater.  Then he reached into the top drawer of his dresser.

            “Bowtie, or no?” he asked Flora, who cocked her head.  “You know what, if Courfeyrac can’t handle a bowtie, than he can’t handle me.” He decided, looping a coordinating silk tie around his neck and tying it.  Not a moment later, Courfeyrac knocked on the door.

            “Hey.” He said as Combeferre opened the door, giving a little wave. He immediately felt underdressed, but then remembered that Combeferre usually wore a bowtie and a sweater…And he didn’t seem like the sort of guy who wore jeans all that often…

            “Good morning.” Combeferre replied with a smile.

 

—o0o—

 

            “Thank you.  For doing this, I mean.” Combeferre said, picking apart a piece of bacon, discarding the fatty portion absently.  He blushed.

            “It was your idea.  I’m having fun.” Courfeyrac replied, returning the grin.

            “I just…I feel like I made you do this.  That wasn’t exactly polite.  I just…I’m always so shy I can never seem to…to ask anyone on a real date.” He admitted.

            “Hey, if I didn’t want to do this, I would have said no and just given you money for Rocketship.” Courfeyrac replied with a little chuckle. “I’m a little like that too. I never ask people to do stuff. Things sort of just…happen.” He smiled. Courfeyrac had been on his fair share of dates.  In fact, he had probably been on enough dates for at least three 20-year-old-guys, but he wasn’t lying when he said he never planned anything or really asked anyone out. It sort of just fell into place around him, buying girls drinks, finding guys alone at a night club and dancing together…He didn’t know how it happened.  It just did.

            “To be completely honest, this is my first real date.” Combeferre smiled meekly.

            “No. I don’t believe you.” Courfeyrac replied, looking Combeferre in the face.  Surely someone as good-looking as him has had a significant other. “You’re like…really…really handsome.” Courfeyrac said, feeling a little awkward calling previously-Weird-Combeferre he was handsome…but it was true.  He was thin, with a narrow face and long nose.  His mouth was very symmetrical, except for a charming stray freckle or beauty mark just off center.  He wore glasses, but Courfeyrac was sure his eyes were nice. How could they not be? Everything else about him was impeccable.

            “I’m sorry…” Combeferre said with another deep blush. “What did you say?”

            “I said I don’t believe you’ve never been on a date.” Courfeyrac said. Maybe Combeferre hadn’t heard the last bit…

            “No after that.” He smiled.  He learned a long time ago that in order to speak with someone, he needed to get over asking people to repeat themselves.  Though he knew he had to do it, and that there was nothing wrong with asking people to repeat what they had said, it still embarrassed him ever so slightly, especially now that he was on a date.

            “I…I said you’re handsome.” Courfeyrac said again.  This time it was his turn to blush.  Combeferre smiled.

            “I’m not sure about that…But thank you.  Nobody has told me that before.”

            “I’m surprised.” Courfeyrac slipped his hand across the table and discreetly placed it on Combeferre’s.  Combeferre smiled and laced their fingers together.

            “I’m very sad that we’re finished breakfast.” Combeferre said after a long moment.  “I suppose that means our date is over.”

            “Well…It doesn’t have to be over…Or we could have another one.” Courfeyrac suggested.

            “Really? You want to go on another date? With me?” Combeferre seemed genuinely surprised, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but laugh.

            “Yeah. I like you a lot. To tell you the truth, I thought you were sort of weird all these years…you always just kept to yourself…but you’re not weird.  You’re cool.   And I really want to see you again.” He stood and pulled on his light jacket, leaving the check and money on the table. Combeferre stood as well and immediately gave Courfeyrac a hug, which he willingly returned.

            “I’m glad you stole my kitten.” He said finally.  Courfeyrac laughed.

 

 

 

~Please do not steal kittens.  It isn't nice and you probably won't get a date.  Just a disclaimer ;)  Meow!


	4. Don't be Sorry.  Just be Joly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: prosthetic leg Joly

Bossuet was having a particularly awful day.  It wasn’t that other days were especially wonderful, but this day was really a downer. Bossuet always had terrible luck, but things were really getting out of hand, and he was beginning to question whether God had something against him or if he had accidentally broken some sort of universal law and was now being punished for it by everything in existence. 

            It started with the grocery store.  All he needed was a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and some sort of cereal his roommate, Bahorel, liked.  That was it. Three things.  The milk was the beginning of the end.

            That stupid milk.  Of course, Bossuet picked up the one with the oddly bent handle sort of thing, and it broke almost immediately.  It must have gotten smashed in shipment or something, but apparently Bossuet’s hand and the weight of the milk was enough to snap it in half, directly onto a carton of two-dozen eggs.  Bossuet stood as an island amidst a sea of broken egg shells, yolks, and an entire gallon of milk.

            After getting laughed at by some old lady carrying a ham and about fifty cans of cat food, Bossuet was rescued by a staff member.  The mess only used about three rolls of the cheep paper towels, so he considered that a plus (the soy sauce incident involved almost five rolls and a the cost of some old guy’s orthopedic shoes, but that’s another story). They even let him have a gallon of milk for free, seeing as the carton was completely defective. He still had to pay for the two-dozen eggs, though.

            Next came the bread, which was by far the worst thing ever. For some reason, he got it into his head that he needed to toss the bag of bread over his shoulder, Santa Style, but in the process, he totally whacked some guy with a cane onto the floor, his glasses sliding about ten feet away, the cane flying off in the opposite direction.  Bossuet immediately dropped the loaf of bread and offered him a hand.

            “I am so sorry, I didn’t—” _oh no he’s hot_.

            All Bossuet had really seen at first glance was the cane, and seeing as his grocery store blunders tended to involve old people, he was really surprised when he saw a young man looking up at him, squinting and blinking his bright brown eyes.

            “That’s okay!” he replied cheerfully, smiling and sitting up. “I would be much obliged if you could grab my cane, though.  The glasses would be nice too.” He joked.

            “Yes. Yes of course, here.” Bossuet said, handing the guy his bright green cane and thick glasses. He pushed himself up with the cane and wiped his glasses on his shirt before offering Bossuet his hand.

            “Joly.” He said.

            “Bossuet.” He replied with a meek grin.  “I was the guy who needed a ‘clean up in dairy’ a few minutes ago.”

            “Ah yes, I believe I heard that over the speakers.” Joly chuckled. “Not having a very good day, are you?”

            “You don’t even know.” Joly laughed again, and Bossuet watched, his laughter like birdsong, his smile impeccable. 

            “Well thank you for helping me back up.” Joly said, collecting his grocery basket and making to walk away, but Bossuet tapped his shoulder lightly before he could get far.

            “Hey, uh…Want to…I mean…Let me buy you a coffee to make up for beating you over the head with a loaf of bread.  Wow that sounded really strange…”

            “Serious?” Joly asked, seeming genuinely surprised. Bossuet couldn’t understand why. Yeah, he had glasses thicker than bulletproof glass and walked with a neon green cane, but holy mackerel was he attractive. A little short, but really handsome.

            “Yeah I’m serious.” Bossuet replied with a smile.

            “Oh. Yeah!  I mean…Is this a date?” he asked with a little grin.

            “Okay now I’m going to ask if you’re serious.  Keep in mind a just hit you with a loaf of bread. Do you really want to date that?” Joly laughed and shrugged.

            “I’ve been through worse.”

           

—o0o—

 

A month passed, and Bossuet finally built up enough courage to ask Joly back to his apartment. Joly seemed a little apprehensive at first, which worried Bossuet, but they eventually made their way back to the house after having dinner out.

            “Want to watch a movie or something?” Bossuet asked.  Joly seemed to visibly relax.

            “Yeah sure.” He smiled.

            “Why so tense, Joly?  I know it’s a mess in here, but it’s not that scary.” Bossuet joked, hoping to put Joly at ease.

            “Oh! Oh no it’s not that, I just…I thought you wanted to do something else.” He admitted with a meek smile.

            “Oh…Oh!...No I wasn’t thinking that.  I was thinking _Pacific Rim_.” He grinned, and Joly laughed, sitting on the sofa, leaning his cane against the arm.

            Though they had been dating for over a month, Joly’s cane never came up in conversation.  Of course Bossuet was curious, but he figured if Joly wanted him to know what happened, he would tell him, so he didn’t ask.  It did worry him slightly, though.  What if Joly was afraid to tell him?  What if it was something weird like a flesh eating disease— _Okay that’s not it, Bossuet.  He probably just has a gimp leg or something…Like Crutchie!_ He thought to himself as he sat beside him, looping an arm around Joly as the movie started.

            “Want hot chocolate?” he asked. 

            “Yes please.” Joly replied with a little smile.  He stood up and made two mugs in the microwave, then carefully walked back over to the sofa.  He placed his own mug onto the coffee table, and handed Joly the second mug, but of course, Bossuet stubbed his toe on the foot of the sofa and the scalding cocoa spilled all over Joly’s leg.

            “Oh my God are you okay?!  Does that burn?!” Bossuet asked, helping Joly stand up, hoping to get the cocoa-soaked jeans off of Joly’s leg so as not to burn him any further. “I am so sorry! Here, I’ll get you another pair of pants to borrow.”

            “It’s okay!” Joly assured him, seeming relatively unalarmed at the scalding liquid on his thigh.  He hardly flinched when it spilled, but Bossuet was still terrified, and quickly hurried into his bedroom to retrieve a pair of pants—pajama bottoms with an elastic waist. They were the only thing he could find that would be small enough for Joly’s slight frame.

            “Here throw these on.” Bossuet said, handing him the flannel pajama bottoms. Joly laughed at the pattern of flying cats and galaxies decorating the pants.  But shortly after, Joly seemed to become uneasy, and simply stood, looking at Bossuet.  “You can change in the bathroom, if you want.” He offered, and Joly nodded. “it’s just around the corner.” Joly hobbled over with a smile and closed the door.

            Almost ten minutes passed without Joly, and Bossuet was beginning to worry. Did he fall or something? Was something wrong? But then he shook the thought from his mind.  He was probably just using the loo or something…stomach problems, yeah.  Joly had mentioned having some sort of chronic ailment…But the first Kaiju was attacking Tokyo, and Joly was missing it. You can’t just get up and leave while you’re watching Pacific Rim, you’ll miss the cool parts! Bossuet stood up, going stir crazy.

            “Want me to pause the movie?” he called.

            “No it’s okay!  I’ll be out in a sec!” he replied.  Bossuet sighed, returning to the sofa.  Joly joined him momentarily.

            “Sorry.  Getting changed is a little tough with the whole…leg thing.” He said absently, reassuming his seat beside Bossuet.

            “It’s fine.  As long as you’re okay…” Joly smiled, not catching the curiosity in Bossuet’s tone.

 

The movie was almost over when Bossuet placed his hand on Joly’s knee.  He meant the gesture to be endearing, but instead, Joly jumped.

            “No! No, no not that leg.” He shouted, going into defensive mode.  But he shortly calmed down and shook his head.  “Sorry. It’s…I mean…” he sighed and put his head against Bossuet’s shoulder. 

            “It’s okay.  I should be sorry. I should have asked or something…”

            “No, no it’s not you at all.” He took Bossuet’s hand. “I just…I guess I should just tell you.” he said quietly, looking down to his lap.

            “You don’t have to—”

            “No it’s not right for me to keep a secret…you should know…” he rolled up the right leg of the pajama bottoms, revealing a prosthetic leg. Bossuet’s eyes widened, and he suddenly felt very quiet.

            “Say something.” Joly said desperately after a long moment.

            “I…Okay.” Bossuet replied with a little smile. 

            “Okay? You’re not mad?”

            “Why would I be mad?  I just don’t understand why you didn’t say so sooner.  It’s no big deal.”

            “Really?”

            “Of course not.”

            “I thought you would be mad.  I thought you would…I thought you would think it was weird…I’ve never been with anyone, and I…I was scared you’d leave.” He admitted.

            “I won’t leave!  It’s just a prosthetic leg! It’s not like you have the plague or something.” He looped his arm around Joly’s shoulders. “I like you for you. I guess that’s what took so long in the bathroom, huh?” Joly nodded.

            “Yeah…It’s a little tough sometimes.  Sorry…”

            “Don’t be sorry.  Just be Joly.” He smiled.


	5. Courfeyrac's Walking Calamity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Post: "Do you think Bahorel and Courfeyrac try to mentally prepare themselves for Jehan’s outfit every day and then end up failing miserably and cry?"
> 
> And absent-minded Jehan head cannon
> 
>  
> 
> This one is very short, but I saw the post and it made me chuckle, so I wrote it up quick :)

Bahorel and Courfeyrac walked to the Musain together for their first meeting of the spring, excited to see everyone, though it had only been a week since their last meeting.

            “So what’s Jehan wearing today, Courfeyrac?” Bahorel asked with a smirk. Courfeyrac and Jehan had been dating for quite a while, and they shared a small flat in the same building as Bahorel. Courfeyrac shook his head.

            “I have no idea.  I always try to prepare myself for the worst, but somehow, he always exceeds my expectations of horrendous.  I just love him so much I could never tell him.”  Bossuet laughed.

            “I’m going with giant sweater and loud patterned leggings that don’t match the scarf around his neck.  Also, two different socks that are pulled up over those leggings.”

            “I think I’m going with grandmother’s cardigan over a crop top…” he smiled, daydreaming.  Jehan was small and girlish, and though he dressed horribly, he always looked cute in a ‘toddler who dressed themselves today’ sort of way.  He could pull off literally anything.  He couldn’t help thinking about Jehan in a tiny top, his little middle showing and the smallest sliver of his tiny floral tattoo visible on his hip bone. “Then I think high tops in different colors and those flow-y pants he’s always wearing.  The crazy patterned ones.” Courfeyrac finished as he held the door for Bahorel.

            “What are we talking about?” Bossuet asked as they entered.

            “Jehan’s outfit.” Bahorel replied with a chuckle.

            “What’s he wearing today?” Grantaire asked from where he poured a glass of wine at the corner table.  “Something ridiculous, as usual?”

            “Grantaire don’t say mean things!” Joly scolded from across the small table.

            “It’s true!” he retorted.

            “He’s right.” Bahorel said with a smile.

            “But that’s why I love him.” Courfeyrac added with a blush.

            “Better brace your retinas.  Here comes our favorite walking calamity now.” Grantaire laughed as Jehan walked to the door, all besides his head hidden by the curtains on the lower portion of the windows.

            “Don’t make fun of Jehan, R.” Enjolras said, finally putting in his two cents. “He’s different, not a calamity.”

            “Actually, I think calamity is a rather accurate description of our dear little poet.” Combeferre said, checking the minutes from their last meeting on his laptop.  Enjolras shrugged, though he too looked to the door as Jehan pushed it open.

            “Hello everyone!” he cooed, running his hands down his loose braid.  
            Bahorel had been the closest guess of Jehan’s outfit.  He wore a pale pink sweater that was far too big for him, the collar hanging off his skinny bare shoulder.  He was also wearing a loud pair of leggings, printed with a clash of flowers and birds. Bahorel had also called his choice—or lack of choice—in socks: one was lacey and pushed down against the top of his high top sneakers, the other blue and green striped and left up almost to his knee. Courfeyrac, however, had correctly guessed his shoes: one was a pale pink, the other pale yellow, both tied with minty green laces. 

            “Hello, Jehan!” Enjolras greeted him with a smile as Grantaire stifled a laugh. Joly ran an almost exasperated hand down his face, though he smiled.

            “I like your leggings, Jehan.” He said, making Jehan’s face light up.

            “Do you really?!  Oh thank you!” he replied, giving a little bounce on his toes before seeming to become distressed.

            “What’s wrong?  Are you alright?” Combeferre asked, pushing up his glasses.

            “I think I’ve left my notebook at home!  Now I don’t have anywhere to write down sudden inspiration!” he replied, his bright eyes seeming to become glassy with the promise of tears. Jehan was terribly sensitive, and wore his emotions on his sleeves. He kept none of his feelings to himself, and was so horribly sensitive, he would burst into tears over the drop of a hat—or the forgetting of a notebook.

            “It’s in your hand, dearest.” Courfeyrac said, giving him a hug from behind. Jehan grasped his arm lovingly with a blush, giggling at himself.

            “He really is a walking calamity, isn’t he?” Enjolras whispered to Combeferre with a smile.  Combeferre nodded.

            “So what are we talking about today, Enjolras?” Joly asked.

            “Oh! We were planning on working with—”

            “No wait!” Jehan said, reaching into the fringed bag that hung over his shoulder.  “I found this!” he pulled a mangy kitten out of his bag.

            “Oh my Goodness.” Combeferre said to himself, his eyes wide. Enjolras raised an eyebrow. Everyone else only laughed, not at _Jehan_ , but at his quirky, strange, _charming_ oddities that made them love him so much.  And Jehan laughed with them, because he knew he was different, and he knew he was a walking disaster, but he loved it.  He loved everything.  That’s what made him Jehan Prouvaire.


	6. Don't let Grantaire anywhere Near your Teeth

Imagine your OTP as children. Person A has a loose tooth and is scared to pull it. Person B keeps trying to convince A to let them do it and get it over with.

~OTPPrompts.tumblr.com

 

            “I’m sorry, Grantaire, Jehan says he wants to say inside today.” Mrs. Prouvaire said kindly when Grantaire, the seven year old who lived next door, knocked.

            “But how come?” he asked with a frown.  He and Jehan always played out in the cul-de-sack on the weekends and over summer vacations, and it was mid July, the pavement warm on bare feet and perfect for making chalk masterpieces—Grantaire was a good artist, and Jehan liked coloring in his designs.  His friend had been acting strangely the past few days, though, and Grantaire was mildly worried.  He seemed to have his fingers in his mouth an awful lot, and complained of an uncomfortably wiggly tooth, but Grantaire didn’t see that as a reason to now want to play jump rope with Joly and Enjolras, or to be afraid to have a catch with Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly, the triplets on the corner.

            “His tooth is very loose.  He says it’s hurting him a bit.”

            “Can I see him anyway?” Grantaire asked, shoving his tongue against the gap from his own missing tooth.

            “Sure. He’s watching Peter Pan on the sofa.” Mrs. Prouvaire smiled, holding the door for the little boy, his inky curls hanging over his bright eyes.

            “Jehan?” he cooed, peeking around the doorway leading into the living room. Jehan turned and looked over the back of the sofa, a popsicle in his little hands, his hair a mess around his head—he kept his strawberry hair shaggy and shoulder-length.  He waved.  “How come you don’t want to come outside?”

            “My tooth is wiggly.” He explained simply in his quiet coo. Jehan was very quiet and softspoken. He was tiny and birdlike in stature, with milky skin that was very different from Grantaire’s more Italian tone.

            “But you can still come play.  Or pull it out!” Grantaire suggested with a smile, sitting beside Jehan on the sofa. The littler boy recoiled at that suggestion.

            “But that will hurt,” he replied, giving his orange pop a lick and pushing around his tooth with his tongue.  It was one of his bottom teeth, his first loose one.

            “Not if you do it fast.  It just comes out. Then the tooth fairy comes, and then you can play outside again!”

            “But I’m scared it will hurt and bleed…” he continued, snuggling up into the corner of the sectional sofa with his popsicle.

            “It won’t hurt!  My big cousin Montparnasse does it all the time when my teeth are wiggly!  It’ll be really fast, okay?” he coaxed.  Jehan was one of his best friends, and he couldn’t stand to be without him on such a bright, sunny day.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yup I promise!”

            “You’re _really_ sure?”

            “Yes really, REALLY sure!”  Jehan shrugged, and Grantaire grinned.  “come on we can do it outside then Joly and Enjolras and Combeferre and everyone can see too!”  That actually put Jehan at ease—at least as much ease as he could be at in such a situation. Enjolras was nine, older than the others, and usually stopped any antics before they got dangerous. If this really was a bad idea, which Jehan was sure it was, Enjolras would step in.  Combeferre was also nine, and though he was less bossy than Enjolras, he was cautious.  Jehan usually hung about in his shadow to be safe.  Grantaire, Joly, and the triplets were usually the ones who got into trouble. Courfeyrac could go either way. He was usually too busy playing hopscotch with the girls.  Marius usually followed Courfeyrac, but he was too shy to talk to any of the girls, especially Cosette, the little girl with mahogany curls who lived across the street from Combeferre.

 

Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet were waiting with chalk in the cul-de-sac when Grantaire finally coaxed Jehan outside.

            “Want to draw?” Feuilly asked, finishing the beak on a blue bird.

            “No we should draw a game or something.” Bahorel suggested. He wasn’t especially artistic and much preferred physical activity to sitting and drawing.

            “Ask Jehan!” Bossuet insisted, looking to his brothers with a furrowed brow. Bossuet, though prone to bad luck and clumsy, was the most loving of the triplets.  He and Bahorel always looked out for Feuilly, who was the smallest of the three, with red hair and freckles.  People often made fun of him because Bahorel and Bossuet looked so much alike, and Feuilly seemed to come out of nowhere.

            “We have to get Jehan’s tooth out!” Grantaire announced.  Jehan slapped his hands over his mouth.  Bahorel and Bossuet were big and tough.  Though the three of them were only eight, Bahorel and Bossuet could have passed for ten or 11.  Jehan was the littlest, only six, and sometimes felt very small beside the bigger boys.

            Bahorel and Bossuet stood from crouching with their chalk and approached Jehan, attempting to inspect his tooth, but Jehan remained tight-lipped. Feuilly only shrugged and returned to his drawings.  Jehan watched him quietly, trying his best to forget about his tooth.

            Jehan had always liked Feuilly.  He was quiet, yet funny, and was just big enough for Jehan to feel safe with him, but not so big as to be intimidating.  Sometimes, he and Jehan would take walks in the woods while the others played ball or tag—games Jehan was either too little or too frightened to play.

            “It’s almost out!” Bossuet said when he was finally able to pry Jehan’s hands away from his mouth.

            “You can probably just wiggle it out yourself.” Bahorel added. Jehan shook his head.

            “No we should do it how Montparnasse did!” Grantaire bubbled. Montparnasse was 13. He was a big kid, and they all did whatever he said.  The fact that he was Grantaire’s cousin gave Grantaire more sway when it came to making decisions, though he was only eight, himself.

            “How did he do it?” Feuilly asked, his interest piqued.

            “He tied my tooth to some floss then tied the floss to his bike and rode down the hill.  It came out right away!”

            “I don’t want to touch any teeth, but I have my bike!” Joly smiled, walking his blue bicycle up to the others, apparently hearing the excitement from his own yard, where he had been playing fetch with his dog, using a paper towel to pick up the slobbery ball every time it was dropped.

            “Come on, Jehan, open up!” Grantaire smiled.  Jehan’s bottom lip began to quiver, his big blue eyes flooding with tears.  He shook his head without opening his mouth.

            “It’ll only take a second.  Then you’ll feel better!” Bahorel assured him.  Feuilly watched quietly from behind his brothers.  Joly didn’t take his hands off his bike, but also studied Jehan.

            “I don’t want to!” Jehan squeaked through his hands.

            “R said you did, though!” Bossuet said, looking to Grantaire.

            “I thought he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have come out, right?”

            “What’s going on?” Courfeyrac asked, Marius, Cosette, Eponine, and Musichetta in tow.

            “We’re pulling out Jehan’s tooth.” Bahorel announced.

            “No we’re not!” Jehan insisted.

            “I’ll do it if you want.  I pulled my teeth out lots of times.” Courfeyrac smiled and showed the impressive gap where both his bottom and top front teeth were missing.

            “No let’s draw!” the little boy insisted again, tears beginning to run down his face.

            “Don’t cry, Jehan!” Marius said, attempting comfort, though he was horribly awkward, especially with Cosette beside him.

            “Don’t do it if he doesn’t want you to!” Musichetta shouted. She, like Enjolras, could be bossy.

            “But he said he did before…” Grantaire said.

            “But he doesn’t now so don’t!” she added, her chubby hands on her hips. Musichetta was only seven, though, and everybody knows that you only have to listen to kids who are older than you are. That’s the rule.

            “Who made you boss, Musichetta?” Bahorel said.  Though he was normally kind—all of them were kind—he was by far the most aggressive, and loved to win.

            “Me that’s who!” Eponine said with a growl.  Eponine was also tough and competitive, and gave Bahorel a run for his money. Grantaire stayed quiet. He knew for a fact that Eponine could beat him up.

            “What’s going on?” Enjolras asked, running up with Combeferre. They had been exploring the woods, building forts.  Enjolras was very good at building forts—the best in the neighborhood—and took pride in his skills. He was always building new monuments in the woods, usually with the help of Combeferre, his best friend.

            “We’re pulling out Jehan’s tooth!” Bossuet declared.  Enjolras raised one of his blonde eyebrows, and Combeferre looked confused.

            “But Jehan isn’t here.” He said, pushing up his glasses.  Enjolras looked around.

            “What do you mean?  He was standing right there,” Feuilly explained, turning his attention to the spot beside the mailbox Jehan had been in not a moment before.

            “He must have gotten scared.” Marius said lightly.  Cosette nodded in agreement.

            “Well we have to find him,” Enjolras said, worried.  “He’s only little.  Look around, maybe he’s hiding someplace.” He began walking towards the bushes near the stop sign, a sunny spot Jehan frequented.  He liked making chains out of the weedy flowers that grew there. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet ran back towards their house at the end of the street.  They had the biggest backyard, and Jehan liked their swing set. Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac started into the woods, walking the path to the next street over; Jehan’s grandmother lived there, and sometimes went to her house when he was upset. Combeferre hurried after Enjolras, and Joly hopped on his bike to make a quick sweep of the street, hopefully seeing Jehan along the way.  Grantaire headed back to Jehan’s house, intent on seeing if he was there, but avoiding his mother—he didn’t want her to worry, and he especially didn’t want to get into trouble.  He was the one who insisted Jehan come outside in the first place, and now they couldn’t find him. Surely Grantaire would be blamed.

            He peeked through the downstairs window, standing on the porch and peering inside. He didn’t see Jehan, and Mrs. Prouvaire was sitting on the sofa, watching a soap opera.  Jehan’s bedroom window upstairs was open, as usual, but the light wasn’t turned on, meaning Jehan wasn’t there; he always turned the light on. Grantaire took that as enough evidence to mean Jehan wasn’t at home.  He sighed and started back to the cul-de-sac, looking around on his way.

 

            “I don’t believe Grantaire!” Enjolras said quietly to Combeferre as they headed down the street.  “Poor little Jehan! Of course he didn’t want to have his tooth pulled, and now he’s gone to hide!”

            “I’m sure he’s around.  Grantaire didn’t mean to scare him.  He’s not mean like that,”

            “But Jehan is so little!  Everything is scary to him.  And I wouldn’t want R anywhere near my teeth!” he said with a sour face, crossing his arms. Combeferre shrugged. Grantaire always got on Enjolras’ nerves.  He was, in fact, very loud, outspoken, and just a little too mischievous to be trusted, but he seemed to bother Enjolras more than any of the others did.

            “He’ll turn up.” Combeferre said with a smile.  “Don’t worry.”

 

The moment everyone’s attention shifted, Jehan made his escape.  He scrambled away, making for the small stretch of woods, then making his way down the road, keeping off the grass and pavement to keep from being seen by the others.

            He kept close to the edge, secretly just a bit frightened of being in the forest alone, but popped out and back onto the sidewalk just outside of Cosette’s house, where her father, Mr. Valjean sat, rocking in the chair on the porch, reading a book.

            Cosette was six, just like Jehan, and they were in the same first grade class at the elementary school, so Jehan knew her father, and knew he was a very kind man.  That didn’t mean Jehan was any less shy than usual.  He stood at the edge of the lawn with his hands clasped at his chin nervously, wringing his fingers and pushing his loose tooth with his tongue.  After a few moments, Mr. Valjean looked up, hearing Jehan’s tiny sniffle as he began to cry again.

            “Hello, Jehan,” Mr. Valjean smiled, walking down the porch steps and crouching to look Jehan in his big blue eyes.  “What is wrong?” he asked.  Tears flooded Jehan’s cheeks, and he extended his arms to the man, falling into him. Mr. Valjean caught him and hoisted up his light little body, sitting him on the porch swing.

            “Could I get you something, _Petit Monsieur_? Some water?”

            “Apple Juice,” Jehan said into his hands, rubbing his eyes with his fists. The man smiled and headed inside, returning a moment later with a small glass and a plate of crackers. Jehan smiled weakly, looking around, hearing shouts from the others as they looked for him, but Cosette’s house was around the corner, and they wouldn’t find him there…not for a while, anyhow.

            “There you are!  Now what’s the matter, Jehan Prouvaire?” he asked, sitting in his rocking chair again and looking to the little boy.

            “I have a wiggly tooth and they want to pull it out but I’m scared.” He explained simply, opening his mouth and wiggling his tooth with his tongue. Mr. Valjean inspected the tooth, nodding approvingly.

            “That is a very wiggly tooth indeed.  It’s going to come out very soon.”

            “I don’t want them to pull it out, though.” he added, taking a cracker and nibbling lightly.

            “Not to worry.  I won’t let them pull your tooth out.  I have something I’d like you to try, though.  Cosette and I tried making our very own chocolates yesterday, and I think they’re ready to eat. Would you like to try one for me?” Jehan nodded, finishing his cracker with a smile.  The man walked inside and returned with two chocolate dipped candies, each sprinkled with pink sugar by Cosette.  He handed one to Jehan, and took a bite of his own, showing the candy inside.

            “Try it!  They’re very good! Cosette put raspberry in the middle.” He smiled.  Jehan took a bite tentatively, his tooth aching just a bit as he did.  He began to chew, but soon realized something was amiss. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, and he bit down on something hard.  He fished around in his mouth for a moment, and lo and behold, his tooth had come out!  He grinned.

            “Chocolates work wonders, don’t they, Jehan?” the man said, offering the little boy a napkin to catch the small amount of blood.  He nodded, wiping away the last of his tears just as Cosette came running around the house.

            “Papa have you seen Jehan we can’t find him anywh—Oh Hello, Jehan!” she said with a wave.  Jehan returned the gesture with a smile as he held the napkin to his mouth.

            “M’ toof kem ot!” he mumbled.  Cosette cocked her head, her curls flopping to one side.

            “My tooth came out!” he tried a second time, removing the tissue for just a second.

            “It came out?” Courfeyrac asked as he and Joly ran around the corner of Cosette’s porch, followed shortly by Marius and the triplets.  Enjolras and Combeferre arrived a moment later, as did Musichetta and Eponine.

            “It came out on Cosette’s chocolate!” Jehan laughed, showing his friends the other half of his candy.

            “Wow that’s cool!” Bahorel grinned.

            “Can I try one?” Cosette asked her father.  He headed inside a final time with the tray of chocolate, handing one to each of the kids.

            “See Jehan, having your tooth out isn’t so bad!” Grantaire chuckled, sitting beside Jehan on the swing.  Jehan frowned and gave him a joking bop on the head with the palm of his hand.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
~Not really 'OTP', but still cute and dumb, so why not, right?


	7. Can't You See I Love You?

Blind Grantaire HC, ExR  
  
I saw this post and thought it was a cool idea, so I wrote it.  If the author of the post wants me to take it down or anything, just message me!

grantaire-the-drunken-artist  
http://elfsongs.tumblr.com/post/128801774097/blind-grantaire-hc  


 

“That’s why we need to get more people on board with the fund raiser, Grantaire!” Enjolras shouted, slapping his hands down onto the table with a loud _smack!_

            “Enjolras, people don’t come to stuff just because you ask them to! You have to give them a reason to go. People are selfish as hell! They don’t give a shit about Polycystic Kidney Disease because nobody knows what it is!  At least bribe them with food,”

            “We don’t have the money in the budget for food…Not with the tee shirts…” Combeferre said, sitting at the booth in the corner, scrolling through their meeting minutes.

            “People will come—”

            “They won’t, Enjolras!”

            “Grantaire, you never understand!  Can’t you see—!” Enjolras cut himself short, realizing what he had said.

            Grantaire had been completely blinded by his abusive father when he was ten. The bleach had completely ruined his eyes, the burns still visible, even ten years later.  His irises were blotchy and pale blue, and his pupils were a foggy grey, spooky at first glance.

            People asking or even mentioning him ‘seeing’ made him understandably upset. He knew it was silly, and that his friends didn’t mean any harm, but he was extremely bitter.

His friends were careful not to mention seeing in any context, but there were occasional slip ups.

            “No, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, standing up, towering above tiny Enjolras. “I can’t see.”

            “I’m sorry, R, I didn’t—”

            “It’s fine.  Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a fake, mocking smile in the direction of Enjolras, though he was obviously staring at the wall.  A tear came to Jehan’s eye. 

He was the only one of the group who knew Grantaire before he lost his vision, and it always broke his heart to see him upset.  Grantaire showed great promise as an artist, even at only ten years old. He was always drawing pictures to go with Jehan’s little stories, and he was very, very talented. He wanted to be an artist—he always had—and his passion had been taken from him in such a terrible, painful way.

“R, I didn’t mean to—” Enjolras stopped when Grantaire reached into his worn leather backpack and took out his cane, unfolding it and heading towards the door, swinging it back and forth, sweeping the ground in front of him.  Jehan scurried after him, but Grantaire recognized his gait and held up his hand.

“I can get home on my own, Prouvaire.  I’m not helpless.” He barked. Bahorel stood, placing one of his large hands onto Jehan’s skinny shoulder, hoping to offer comfort, for he was forcing back tears.  Grantaire left the Musain, slamming the door behind him.  Enjolras closed his eyes and sighed heavily, guilty.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he tried to explain, though he wasn’t sure who he was explaining to; Grantaire had gone.

“Of course you didn’t. You might not like him, but you would never hurt him,” Courfeyrac said with a small smile to Enjolras. Enjolras shrugged…OF course he liked Grantaire.  He…he loved Grantaire.

“He’ll come around. He always does.” Joly added. Enjolras sat down, raking his fingers through his hair, stopping at his ear, under his curls.  He fiddled with his hearing aid.

 

Grantaire exploded through his apartment door, slamming it behind him and throwing his cane at the wall.  He kicked the coffee table before flopping down onto his sofa and sobbing into a pillow.  He was being stupid.  He knew he was being stupid, and yet he couldn’t help the way he felt.  Enjolras hadn’t meant to hurt him.  He hadn’t meant to say that damn word, and he certainly didn’t intend to send Grantaire into a depressive spiral.  But he did know that being sent into a frenzy by such a common word, with so many contexts, was idiotic.  He hated it.  He hated his father. He hated himself. He was nothing. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t make art anymore, he couldn’t even take care of himself—Jehan had to help him with everything from grocery shopping to getting out clothes that were matched in a socially acceptable way.  He had to be lead around in new places, like a puppy on a leash. Someone had to cook for him, after he burned himself on the stove he didn’t know was hot—he couldn’t see the red coils. How he wished for independence, if nothing else.

            He laid on the couch for an hour, in silence, simply allowing himself the self pity for a while.  When he heard the knock at the door, he assumed it was Jehan and shouted: “it’s open!”

            But Jehan was not at the door, and Grantaire knew who it was as soon as he heard the smooth, silky footsteps.

            “Grantaire?” Enjolras said in his creamy voice—a voice Grantaire so loved to hear…Perhaps that was why he argued; he wanted Enjolras to keep talking.

            “What?” he grunted into the pillow, not bothering to lift his head. What did it matter? He would never see the face that matched that beautiful voice.

            “I…I wanted to apologize.  I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not sure what else to say…”

            “It was my fault.  I’m sorry I’m so bitter and cynical…”

            “You have every right to be.” Grantaire sat up, and Enjolras sat beside him, placing his hand over Grantaire’s, a common gesture among the friends to let him know where they were.  He usually passively allowed his hand to be held or to be lead somewhere, but this time, he threaded his fingers between Enjolras’ a squeezed. 

            “Keep talking.” He said, leaning on the armrest, his stubbly cheek in his hand, his unkempt hair a curly, inky mess around his face.

            “I…I don’t know what else to say…”

            “Just keep talking.”

            “Why?”  
            “Your voice,” he explained simply, quietly, “It’s nice.”  Enjolras blushed, but not because he was flattered.  It was because he didn’t hear what Grantaire said. Enjolras had learned to read lips, and could usually make out what people were saying, even if he couldn’t actually hear them saying it.  But Grantaire was looking away, and Enjolras would have to tell him to repeat himself…to tell him he was almost completely deaf.

            “W…What did you say?” he asked, leaning closer, trying to hear, to listen as hard as he could.  Grantaire turned in Enjolras’ direction and furrowed his eyebrows, releasing his hold on his hand.

            “If you just came to make fun of me, you can leave.”

            “I’m not!  I swear I’m not, I just…Here.” He took Grantaire’s hand and lead his fingertips to his ear, to the small, clear tube that ran from the inner portion of the hearing aid, letting him follow it up and around to the external battery behind his ear. Grantaire’s deadened eyes widened.

            “What is it?” he asked, though he was sure he already knew.

            “It’s a hearing aid,” Enjolras explained as Grantaire moved his other hand over to the other side of Enjolras’ head, feeling the second aid that resided there. “I’m deaf.  I was in a car accident when I was four…apparently if you hit your head just the right way, you lose your hearing.”

            “Are you really?  But you know what everyone is saying, I’ve heard you talk to them.  I know you can hear them,”

            “I’ve gotten pretty good at reading lips…I can’t hear what people are saying the majority of the time…the hearing aid only helps a very little bit.”

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” he pulled his hands away.

            “Would you tell me what you said before?”

            “What?”

            “Tell me what you were saying, when you were turned away…”

            “I…I said your voice sounds nice.”

            “Does it?” he smiled. “I can’t hear it very well!”

            “It’s like honey.  It sounds the way a shower feels.  I wish I could see how you looked.  I want to know if your face matches your voice.” He felt the blood rush to his cheeks…Perhaps it wasn’t Enjolras’ voice he was in love with…Maybe it was the rest of him as well.

            “Is there any way I could help—” Grantaire pressed his sensitive fingertips to Enjolras’ cheek, running them carefully down to his chin, a smile stretching across his face.

            “You’re so skinny.  Your chin feels like an elbow.” He joked.  Enjolras laughed, and Grantaire moved his fingertips to his mouth, tracing the smile.

            “What does my mouth feel like?” Enjolras asked.

            “I don’t know…your lips aren’t as smooth as I imagined…”

            “Sorry…They’re a little chapped, I guess.” His fingers traveled to Enjolras’ eyes, stopping for a long while on his eyelids.

            “Are you saying anything?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire pulled away.

            “Yes.”

            “What were you saying?”

            “I said I’d like to kiss you.”

            “I think I might like to kiss you, too.”

 

The distance closed between them, and neither could describe the sensation: it was loud in Enjolras’ ears, and bright to Grantaire’s eyes, transcending their realities and differences. 

            They stayed that way for a while, staying very close, Enjolras’ hand pressed to Grantaire’s cheek so he could open his eyes when he felt him speaking. But even Enjolras was startled by the shriek that rang out from the doorway.

            “I’m sorry! I’m leaving!  I’m leaving I’m leaving I’m leaving!” Jehan shouted, closing the door, loud enough for Enjolras to hear every word.  Grantaire laughed.


	8. It Takes an Earthquake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Person A and person B are hanging out when an earthquake (or something along those lines) comes out of no where. A panics and is convinced the world is ending and grabs B. A confesses their love for B, and A kisses B before B can tell them that the world isn’t ending. The earthquake ends shortly after. A realizes the world is not ending and fluffy awkwardness commences.   
> (Bonus points is B kisses A when the earthquake ends.)
> 
> otpprompts on tumblr

It was no secret that Enjolras had been eyeing the new intern since he arrived…Well, it was known by everyone except the intern. Grantaire was smart, but he was clueless, and had no idea Enjolras had been watching him constantly from his small corner desk just outside the Big Boss’s office—he was her secretary.

            Grantaire had just started working in the Los Angeles office building, drawing up designs for their latest fashion ads—the company made and sold designer clothes—and showed promise.  Enjolras secretly loved seeing his drawings, when he was allowed to show them to Eponine, AKA Big Boss, but he never said anything encouraging…then everyone would know…Instead he just looked at them disapprovingly over his shoulder, turning away in a huff when their eyes met.

            Grantaire was under the impression that Enjolras hated him, but he wasn’t sure why. Yes, he was scruffy, a little too opinionated, and honestly, he was a little chubby, but none of those things were really grounds to _hate_ anyone…He tried to be nice, but it was difficult sometimes, especially when he told him his drawings were ‘okay I guess’ or ‘fine’.  Truthfully, Grantaire had never seen anyone as beautiful as Enjolras—except perhaps for their top model, Jehan, who he may or may not have made out with in the closet right before a runway show. But if he was being completely honest, he would have preferred Enjolras any day…even though he was sort of a jerk…

            “This one is good,” Eponine smiled, leaning against her doorframe, looking over Grantaire’s newest drawings.  Jehan stood on his toes and admired the new dress as well.

            “It’s very pretty, dearest, but I think I’d like it better in blue…Would it come in more colors?” he turned Eponine.

            “If it’s popular…I like the pink though.”  Enjolras’ curiosity got the better of him, and he stood from his desk chair, peering over Jehan’s shoulder.

            “Oh dearest, what do you think?” Jehan asked Enjolras with a smile. Enjolras may or may not have also made out with Jehan that one time when he was drunk at the Christmas party and dragged the tiny model under his desk.  Though he was tall, he weighed hardly 110 pounds, and fit quite nicely in Enjolras lap.  It was a fond memory for Jehan, who had never been kissed prior, and would have been a nice memory for Enjolras as well, had he not been completely hammered out of his mind by a prank martini given to him by Courfeyrac, his best friend in the cover department.

            “It’s alright.” He replied simply with a shrug.  Grantaire frowned, and decided it was time to stand up for himself.

            “What’s wrong with it, do you think?” he asked, holding the clipboard up to Enjolras, so he could see the drawing better.  Enjolras blushed.  There was nothing wrong with it.  It was impeccable, from the way the skirt fell in pink petals to the plunging yet tasteful neckline.  He didn’t know what to say.

            “I…I mean, It’s just…Maybe it should be longer, is all.” Bullshit. He pulled that right out of his ass and everyone knew it.  Grantaire narrowed his eyes and smirked.

            “I think it looks nice how it is.  Enjolras is just bitter he isn’t tall enough to model it himself!” Jehan smiled, flashing a grin at Enjolras, who was sitting with his head cast over his keyboard. Grantaire laughed.

            “Thanks, Prouvaire.” He smiled.

 

Enjolras was charged with closing the office that night, and therefore had to stay late and make sure all of their private records from last week were shredded—that was part of the closing deal.

            He really didn’t mind.  He enjoyed the quiet solitude of the large office room, and he always played music he liked—embarrassing showtunes he never played in front of anyone—so it wasn’t as bad as the others made it out to be. 

            He had just finished singing _Angel of Music_ from the Phantom of the Opera when he heard the rumble.

 

Grantaire couldn’t leave.  Not with this idea in his head.  And if he put in extra hours, Eponine might finally hire him for real!  And he was almost done, anyway…He just had to color it, and then he would go home…It wasn’t that late…only 7:00, and the place closed at 5:00.  He just hoped he didn’t get locked in.  That would be a bummer, but the sofa in Eponine’s office was comfy, and Jehan kept a robe in his dressing room, worst case…He planned his hypothetical night in the office while deciding on a color…but his pencils began to shake violently and the entire tin clattered to the ground.

 

It was then that Grantaire heard the scream. He thought he was alone, working late in the quiet building, but apparently he was wrong, and he was glad for it. He didn’t want to be by himself during an earthquake, no matter how small it was.

            He struggled to stand with the tremor, but he did with help of the cubicle wall, calling out to whoever had yelled.

            “Hey It’s okay!  Get in Eponine’s doorway!” he shouted, knowing it had to be someone who worked with him. He made his way to the doorway himself, looking out for whoever was in the room with him.

            Grantaire had lived in California his entire life, and was used to the regular seismic activity.  Enjolras was from New York—upstate New York—and had only just been transferred to California. This was his first earthquake, and he shouted again at the second tremor, clamoring under his desk and covering his head with his arms.  Grantaire followed the sound, and almost laughed when he found Enjolras huddled in a little ball under his desk.  He got down onto his knees and set a hand on his shoulder.  Enjolras jumped.

            “It’s okay!  This happens all the time. It’s not even a big one!” he explained with a smile as another round of strong shaking began.

            “We’re on the 27th floor!  Grantaire we’re going to die when the building collapses, but if I die I’ll never have the chance to tell you how much I think I might love you and my parents will be so upset and I have a cat at home who will take care of her!?” he babbled. Grantaire felt the blood drain from his face.  Enjolras? Love him?  No…He couldn’t…He was so…perfect…and Grantaire was so…Grantaire. But even so, he had to admit that at the moment it seemed as though Enjolras loved him.  His tiny body was completely wrapped around Grantaire’s, holding tight to him, shaking more than the earthquake, which subsided in a second.

            “It’s over,” he smiled to Enjolras, who was still shaking, clinging to him.

            “But…I…” he blushed, and Grantaire laughed.

            “I would have never guessed you liked me!”

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just—” Grantaire gave him a quick kiss.

            “Shut up. I’ll walk you home in case there’s an aftershock.” He grinned, and Enjolras nodded.  
  
  
  
~I wrote this in like thirty seconds but I think it's sort of funny so here have it 


	9. Angel-ras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first really sad fic I've ever written... Enjolras died five years ago and Grantaire realizes just how much their little boy looks like him.

Person A sobbing over how much their child looks like their deceased partner Person B.

 

It had been obvious for the moment he was born that Nick looked exactly like Enjolras. The hair alone was telltale, but so were the subtle details: his bright blue eyes, the curve of his nose, his freckles. But as he got older, the likeness became even more evident. At four, he began to scrunch his nose when he was angry. At five he ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh when he was sleepy. He was headstrong and perhaps a little stubborn at times. He could have been a clone, it was just _that_ uncanny.

            That made it much harder on Grantaire when Enjolras was gone.

It happened five years ago to the day, just a few weeks before Christmas, when Enjolras was killed. He hadn’t gone out in the blaze of glory Grantaire expected. He wasn’t at one of his rallies or marches. He wasn’t saving anyone, or stopping something bad from happening. He was stabbed while standing in a check-out line, buying Christmas gifts for R and their little boy. He had, apparently, grabbed the last of a limited edition LEGO Star Wars set for Grantaire as a gag gift. He would have given it up in a moment if only the man had asked. But instead, he was senselessly stabbed in the neck. He died in the ambulance in Grantaire’s arms. R hadn’t been the same since.  


            “Papa?” the little boy called to Grantaire as he sat in his bedroom—his and _Enjolras_ ’ bedroom—wrapping presents, feeling down. This time of year always took a toll on him, and it took him everything he had not to drink the pain away. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that to his little boy.

            “What’s up, Nicky?” he called back, pushing the gifts under the bed so he wouldn’t see; they were from Santa.

            “Are you almost done? You said you were going to brush your teeth then we could watch Star Wars.” He peeked around the door, his golden curls creating a halo around his head.

            “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I dropped my…my watch.” He lied, looking for an excuse to be crouched beside the bed.

            “Wow is that a present?!” he called, running to the chair in the corner, where Grantaire had left a wrapped box. “It’s wrapped up in Santa paper! Santa must have left it early!” he exclaimed. Grantaire smiled.

            “He must have,” he replied, covering his tracks. Nicky was very trusting, and therefore a little gullible. He didn’t even notice the roll of ‘Santa paper’ leaning against the closet doorframe. “Bring it over! Let’s see what it is.” Nick smiled and brought the box to Grantaire, sitting across from him on the floor.

            “Hey look there’s a card too!” he exclaimed, scurrying back to the chair and retrieving the envelope. Grantaire felt a lump form quickly in his throat. ‘Enjolras’ left a card every year, and every year, Grantaire had to will himself not to cry. He usually spent early Christmas morning preparing himself for that, specifically, but he couldn’t stop doing it. He knew how important that card was to Nicky, and he promised Enjolras…He promised him he wouldn’t let his death ruin the holiday for their little boy.

            “Wow. He must have left the note early too,” Grantaire played along. Enjolras’ note was part of Nicky’s Christmas gifts. Grantaire explained to him when he was little that Santa was the only one who could get letters from Heaven, and that’s how he knew what you wanted for Christmas. He told him God watched out for you all year and reported back to Santa what you wanted. It also kept Grantaire from having to write a note from Enjolras more than once a year. Santa could only deliver on Christmas, so he could only get a letter on Christmas too. “Read it.” He prompted.

“Dear Nicky, I hope you have a great Christmas and a happy new year. You are doing so well in school, and I’m very proud of you. I really ap…apr….eekit….”

            “Appreciate.” Grantaire assisted.

            “…appreciate the letters you sent me and the drawings you did. You are such a good artist just like your Papa.   I have them all hanging on my wall in Heaven. I love you and your Papa so much and I miss you. Give your Papa lots of hugs for me. I think he might need some extras.

            I love you,

            Love your Angel Daddy.” He smiled, blowing a curl out of his eyes, the same way Enjolras used to do. That little action pushed him over the edge. His lip quivered, and he couldn’t keep himself from giving a loud sob before he was able to stop himself. His throat burned. Hears rolled down his cheeks. He covered his mouth with his hand to keep from making more noise, worried he would make Nicky upset. He wasn’t supposed to be sad. Letters from ‘Enjolras’ were supposed to be happy. They always made Nicky smile.

            “What’s wrong, Papa?” he asked, climbing into Grantaire’s lap and giving him a hug. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t let himself look at the little boy who looked so much like Enjolras. He would fall apart.

            “I miss your Daddy.” He explained simply through his tears, taking a deep, shaking breath.

            “It’s okay. You said Daddy is a guardian angel so he’s with us all the time. You just can’t see him. That’s what you said to me, right?”

            “You’re right.” He finally opened his eyes, smiling to the little boy sitting in his lap. “I shouldn’t be sad. Daddy wouldn’t want me to be sad, would he?” Nicky shook his head.

            “You should go visit him. That makes you feel better.”

            “Maybe I will. Would you like to come?”

            “No I think you and Daddy need alone time. I drew him a picture, though, so you should bring it to him, okay?” he stood and hurried to his bedroom down the hall, returning a moment later with a drawing. “It’s my bedroom so Daddy can see that we painted it!”

            “That’s a great idea, Kiddo!” he stood, giving Nicky a hug. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?” he asked as he headed towards the door, pulling on a coat and a pair of sneakers…The pair he kept right beside Enjolras’. Nothing of his had moved since he died.

            “Yeah I’ll stay here and draw more pictures,” he grinned. The cemetery was only the next block over. Nicky went there alone all the time, and Grantaire knew he could leave him home for a few minutes. He could see the house from Enjolras’ headstone.

            “I’ll be back in a minute.”

            “Bring my picture okay? Don’t forget to leave it, alright?”

            “Alright.”

            “Promise?”

            “I promise.” He closed the door and made his way to the cemetery, walking under the arch and down the paved road, over to the evergreen tree he and their friends had planted over Enjolras’ headstone.

            The gravesite was covered in flowers and cards and candles. One of them was new and lit, meaning Jehan had stopped by less than an hour ago. Feuilly left a new fan, taking the old, faded one he had left over the summer and replacing it with a more vibrant variety. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had probably left the slightly inappropriate Christmas card. Bahorel left flowers, as he did once a week, and Bossuet was definitely behind the small poinsettia in a cracked ceramic pot—he probably broke it on a way over. Joly wrote a sweet note and placed it carefully under a stone so it wouldn’t blow away, along with all the other paper things people left, mostly drawings from Nicky. Grantaire placed the new one there with the others.

            Grantaire knelt down off to the side of the stone. The idea of sitting or standing on Enjolras’ head made him uneasy, so he always sat off to the side. He ran his hand along the smooth, polished granite, tracing the letters, the numbers: 9 June, 1986 – 6 December, 2010. 24 years…too young. He left them too soon.

“Hey Enj,” R said with a little smile, leaning down and pressing his forehead to the cold stone that lay flush with the ground, the grass tickling his nose and combing at his hair. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier this week. I usually come on Tuesday, huh? I was busy with Nicky…Christmas and all. He wanted to go to the tree lighting down town, and we made Santa cookies and decorated the tree…our little house looks great. You would love it. We painted Nicky’s room, too. It’s green, now. He got tired of the blue, I guess…We painted it before he was born. It made me a little sad…me and you painted it…but I wanted him to be happy. That’s all I want. And I know you want him to be happy too.” He sat up and sighed, running his fingers through his hair, pulling out the pieces of grass that stuck there.

“Looks like Jehan was by today. He left you a new candle. Maybe Bossuet, too…This flower looks pretty new. I bet everyone will come by today. I wrote that letter for Nicky…That letter I always write from you. I hope he isn’t mad at me when he finds out it’s me writing it…I can’t really hide my handwriting. I try to though. But he’s smart. He’s just like you.” he smiled, sitting with his legs crossed, his elbows holding up his knees.

“I hope you don’t get cold out here. I always think about that, if you’re cold. You always used to be cold. I’m glad we buried you with that hideous maroon sweatshirt you stole from me when we were dating. I hope it’s keeping you warm.” He sighed and stood.

“I have to get home now, I guess. I don’t want to leave Nicky alone too long, he’s still a little guy…I love you. I’ll always love you.” he shoved his hands in his pockets, and just as he turned to go, he could swear he felt the tickle of Enjolras’ curls against his cheek.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras sat on his headstone, admiring the gifts his friends had left him. He had only just finished trying to console Jehan, who had left not a moment ago. Jehan had taken his passing the worst—maybe even worse than Grantaire. He hated to see him so upset. Jehan was a quiet soul, who lived alone in his little apartment, crowded with flowers. He was also very sensitive and cried often…very often over Enjolras. At the very least, Grantaire had Nicky. Jehan had his friends, but mostly kept to himself, and Enjolras always felt badly for him. He was sorry he had caused so much pain. He didn’t want anyone to be sad on his behalf.

He looked up when he heard Grantaire’s approaching footsteps, smiling when he saw him approach, however a little let down that he hadn’t brought Nicky. Enjolras loved to see Nicky and how he had grown. He looked just like him more and more every day, it seemed.

“Hey, Enj,” Grantaire said as he pressed his head to Enjolras’ headstone, the way he always did. Enjolras ran his fingers through his inky curls, wishing Grantaire could feel him there, but knowing he was oblivious. It made him laugh, sometimes. Grantaire would say things like ‘I miss your hugs’, and all Enjolras could think was ‘but I am hugging you! If only you knew!’.

“Sorry I didn’t come earlier this week. I usually come on Tuesday, huh? I was busy with Nicky…Christmas and all.”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras replied, though he knew Grantaire wouldn’t really be able to hear him. It was easier to talk to him in dreams, when he was asleep. It seems people can only hear angels when they’re sleeping.   
“He wanted to go to the tree lighting down town, and we made Santa cookies and decorated the tree…our little house looks great. You would love it.”

“I watch you…I see you both. I love your little house at Christmas time. I’m sorry I had to leave you so close to the holidays…It must make it hard for you…But I’m there with you. I’m there with you always.” He smiled, placing his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder as he sat up, his arms draped over his wide shoulders. How he wished Grantaire could know he was there. How he wished he could feel the warmth radiating from Grantaire’s body. Death placed a barrier around the dead, one that was difficult to break.

“We painted Nicky’s room… He got tired of the blue, I guess…We painted it before he was born. It made me a little sad…me and you painted it…but I wanted him to be happy. That’s all I want. And I know you want him to be happy too.”

“I do. I want you to be happy, too, though, not just Nicky. You deserve to be happy too. I love his little drawings. He’s so much like you. He might look like me, but he’s so clever like you.” he nuzzled his nose against Grantaire’s neck. “The green looks nice. You must like the green!”

“Looks like Jehan was by today. He left you a new candle. Maybe Bossuet, too…This flower looks pretty new. I bet everyone will come by today.”  
          “Everyone comes today…I wish they wouldn’t. They should pick a happier day. I don’t want them to come on the day I left…I would much rather them come on our anniversary or on Nicky’s birthday…Some time happier.”

“I wrote that letter for Nicky…That letter I always write from you. I hope he isn’t mad at me when he finds out it’s me writing it…I can’t really hide my handwriting. I try to though. But he’s smart. He’s just like you.”

“He loves that letter. It makes him so happy,” Enjolras smiled. “I wish I could write it myself. But you know just what to say.” He said quietly into Grantaire’s ear, making it red with the cold. Angels are always cold.

“I hope you don’t get cold out here. I always think about that, if you’re cold. You always used to be cold. I’m glad we buried you with that hideous maroon sweatshirt you stole from me when we were dating. I hope it’s keeping you warm.” Enjolras laughed.

“I love this sweatshirt. I’m so happy you left it with me. I think I would miss it, if I didn’t have it,” he explained, pulling his hands inside the sweatshirt sleeves—of course he was still wearing it, even in death. “I think it still smells like you.”

“I have to get home now, I guess. I don’t want to leave Nicky alone too long, he’s still a little guy…I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you, too, R. I love you so much.” He stood on his toes and gave Grantaire’s chin a kiss. It was the highest he could reach without Grantaire looking down, but even so, it was heartfelt. Though he did know how Grantaire complained when Enjolras’ hair got caught in his whiskers. But it didn’t matter now…He let his hair brush past Grantaire’s cheek.


	10. Jehan Prouvaire, Forever

Feuilly smiled at Jehan as he unpacked one of their many moving boxes, carefully removing each of the china dishes and placing them on the countertop. He looked up and smiled when he realized Feuilly staring, and they both laughed.

            “I love this house.” Feuilly said, sitting down beside Jehan, wrapping him in a hug.

            “It’s very sweet. Right by the ocean.” He replied, looking out the back window. Their little cottage overlooked the water from where it sat on a hill, their little neighborhood quiet and removed. Though they missed their friends in the city, Jehan’s job as a librarian brought them away. Jehan didn’t seem to mind. He had always been a bit withdrawn, never really getting attached to anyone or anything. And Feuilly was happy as long as Jehan was happy. So they moved.

            Feuilly had been immediately drawn to Jehan when they met at a mutual friend’s club at their university. Jehan was so very intelligent, and seemed like an old soul, someone warm and welcoming, and yet somehow removed, like the sun—always there, but always out of reach. He was quiet, hardly speaking, and even now that they were happily married and living in their own little house, Jehan was still relatively silent. Even so, Feuilly knew him very well. He was intelligent, wise, even, and loved to read. He wrote pages and pages of everything from poetry to prose to papers on the natural world and philosophy. He seemed to hold a millennia of information. Not only that, he took his time in everything. He would spend countless hours just sitting in trees, pondering leaves. He would stop to watch a ladybug cross the path, and would watch his potted flowers all day, just to see the moment they opened. He was amazed by the clouds and smiled every time he saw something as simple as a glistening puddle on a rainy day. That’s what Feuilly loved about Jehan. With him, time didn’t exist. They just were.

            As he got to know Jehan better, he realized that the quiet young man lived far below his means. His tiny apartment in Paris was jam packed with priceless artifacts from ancient Egypt, collections of precious stones, pearls, musical instruments, even a suit of armor, perfectly preserved, as if it had been worn the day before. He had closets and wardrobes and dressers and drawers simply lining the walls, all of them filled to bursting with clothing from every century, antique dresses, gentleman’s lavish coats and shiny shoes. His home was a time capsule, containing bits and pieces of every period one could possibly imagine. His treasures must have cost him a small—no, massive—fortune. More money than Feuilly had ever heard of, much less had, in his entire life as a poor artist.

            Jehan had explained that he was from a wealthy family. He explained he was orphaned young, like Feuilly, and was left a large inheritance. The house and all of their payments were never an issue, and though Feuilly had never met Jehan’s parents, he didn’t question it. Jehan didn’t like talking about money and monetary issues of any kind. He said it made him uneasy, and he never spoke about it. He only continued collecting, only the most beautiful things he came across, and the cost was never a question. He had purchased their house completely and totally, no payments, no debts. And Feuilly never asked questions. He knew it made Jehan upset.

            And so they lived, spending time together when their busy Parisian lives allowed them, slowly, very slowly, becoming more than friends. It was difficult to win Jehan’s heart. He seemed almost afraid to become close with anyone. But Feuilly was persistent, and after four years, he was finally able to convince Jehan to marry him. And so they did.

            “I never thought I would be living in an antique little cottage with a view of the ocean! I’ve had nothing my entire life, and suddenly, somehow, everything has changed. I have everything I could ever wish for.”

            “This is everything you have wished for?” Jehan asked, unwrapping the final antique china dish, just one of Jehan’s many sets of fine china. It was another one of his uncountable collections.

            “All I’ve ever wished was to have a home of my own. And to be with someone I love. And I have both of those things, right here.” He smiled, and Jehan returned the grin, however small and meek it was, with almost sad undertones. “Isn’t that all anyone’s ever wanted?”

            “I suppose so,” he replied.

            “Well what have you always wanted?” Feuilly asked, playing with Jehan’s long, red hair, hair he kept pulled back in a loose ponytail.

            “It’s not so much what I’ve wanted…It’s been what I’ve never wanted,”

            “Well then, what have you _never_ wanted?”

            “I don’t ever want to be alone.” He said simply, standing and placing the dishes into their china cabinet.

            “Well I won’t ever leave you alone. I love you.” he took Jehan’s thin, girlish waist from behind and pulled him close, nuzzling his neck. Jehan smiled and ran his hand through Feuilly’s pale hair. It always amazed Feuilly how skillful Jehan was when it came to closeness. He had never mentioned any past relationships, and yet he seemed to know exactly what made Feuilly melt.

            “I love you too,” he replied. “I love you so much. More than anyone.” He smiled, though he seemed to struggle with his last statement, pausing a moment before he said it, but meaning it, none the less. Feuilly didn’t seem to notice his hesitation.

            “Is everything unpacked?” Feuilly asked, pulling away after a long moment and looking around, empty boxes and bags littering the tiny house.

            “I think so,” he replied, sitting on their upholstered sofa, one Jehan said his grandmother left him when she died. It was old, and Feuilly found its floral pattern dated, but Jehan loved it so much, he didn’t mind keeping it around. Jehan looked out the glass doors to the yard, looking over the hill and down to the water, breaking at the foot of the cliffs.

            “What about this one?” Feuilly asked, lifting a box out of a pile of empty cardboard, still taped up. Jehan looked over, the wall blocking his view, only recognizing the box after Feuilly had opened it and carried it into their sitting room. Jehan sprang from the sofa in an attempt to take the box, to hide it, but it was too late. Feuilly had already seen its contents, had already frozen with a defeated sadness in his eyes, a look that made Jehan’s crystalline blue eyes tear. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

            “Who is this?” he asked, setting the large box down on the floor and looking into it, down at the pile of photographs, letters, mementos, paintings…he reached down and removed one of the top images, a photograph of Jehan with a smile, embracing a young woman in a wedding dress, him in a suit and tie.

            “I—It’s my parent’s wedding…” he lied.

            “No…This is you.” Feuilly protested weakly, tears coming to his own eyes. “When was this?” Jehan didn’t reply.

            “Jehan when was this?!” he nearly shouted, and Jehan covered his face with his hands. Feuilly threw the picture back into the box, crouching down and looking through the other photographs in the box, the anger leaving his face and being replaced by a mixture of terror and disbelief Jehan had seen many times before.

            “Prouvaire…Where did all of these come from?” he asked, removing an older photograph of Jehan in Disneyland, dressed in a loudly colored windbreaker and clean white tennis shoes. The light print on the back of the glossy photograph read 1992…The year Jehan said he was born. Feuilly quietly flipped through the stack, Jehan laughing and smiling with friends Feuilly had never met or seen, kissing a young girl Feuilly never heard about, living a life that didn’t—couldn’t—exist.

            The next stack of images showed Jehan in a mess of floral and bright leggings, his hair in a perm. In the same stack was a picture of Jehan in tears, standing beside a young David Bowie. Feuilly glanced up at him, standing stiffly, the color gone from his face.

            “Is this…Bowie?” he asked. Jehan nodded. “Holy shit…” he continued thumbing through the images, coming across a black and white image of who also appeared to be Jehan, wearing a fringed flapper dress and laughing, nearly falling over as his ankle rolled in a high healed shoe. Behind that was another black and white photograph of Jehan in a newsboy hat and ankle boots, a pen and pad of paper in his hands, a massive, old-style camera hanging around his neck on a leather strap. Many other similar photographs followed—Jehan always with a pen and notepad, his camera, and that news cap…Feuilly bowed his eyebrows and looked to the door, the same, old news cap hung on the hook.

            Jehan stood stone still, distraught, weeping quiet tears and simply watching as Feuilly sifted through the pictures, moving back in time, all the way back to the first photographs ever taken of Jehan, back from the 1880s, images that showed Jehan dressed in a neat suit, sitting beside a another young man and a woman. Their faces were straight, stoic. Beneath the pictures began the piles of artifacts; newspaper clippings and pieces of everyday life from the past. An article from 1912 caught his eye first, but it fell from his hands shortly after he began to read it.

            _White Star Line_ Titanic _sinks on maiden voyage, 1800 lives lost_

Below the title read a list of names, labeled either ‘known survivors’, ‘lost’, or ‘unknown’. Feuilly scanned the lists, and found Jehan Prouvaire listed as lost. He looked up at Jehan again, sorry he was in such distress, but too shocked to offer any comfort.

            “You…This is you?” he pointed to the name in the paper, and Jehan nodded, sobbing. “You...you died…”

            “Sometimes I need to disappear,” he whispered. Feuilly stood and looked to Jehan, his pretty face looking to the ground.

            “Jehan,” he said quietly. He made no reply. “It’s alright. I…I mean…I don’t understand, but…You can help me understand.” He smiled meekly, and Jehan finally met his eyes.

            “You aren’t angry with me?”

            “No. You haven’t done anything…except be alive. For a very long time…I would like you to tell me about it, though.”

            “But I lied to you. I lied to everyone over and over and over—!” he began to shout, becoming hysterical, and Feuilly wrapped him in a hug.

            “Jehan, it’s alright. Please…Sit with me. Tell me about…all of these things…” he guided Jehan to the floor and handed him the first photograph: the one with the woman in a wedding dress, Jehan embracing her warmly.

            “My…my last wedding…” he began, seeming confused, wiping his runny nose on his hand. “Her name was Abigail,”

            “What happened to her?”

            “She died ten years ago…she had breast cancer,”

            “I’m sorry…” Feuilly said, suddenly curious. How many weddings had Jehan been in? What number was _he_? Jehan saw the look in his eyes, and took his hand.

            “Please believe me when I tell you…I…I almost don’t want to say it…I feel badly for…the others…” he glanced upwards for a moment before returning his gaze to Feuilly. “I love you. You’re…you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, truly. In my entire life. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.” he smiled.

            “It’s alright. You don’t have to—”

            “It’s true. You…You’re my favorite.” He laughed lightly, wiping the tears from his eyes.

            “Really?” he smiled. Jehan nodded. “I wish you could stay with me forever,”

            “I will.”

            “But you can’t…” his smile disintegrated.

            “Well…I will for as long as I can,”

            “I know you will,” he reached into the box, removing pictures from the early 1980s. “I hated the ‘80s,” he explained. Feuilly chuckled.

            “Why?”

            “Look at my hair!”

            “You still listen to all the music, though,”

            “I do like the music…” he admitted with a grin.

            “What was your favorite time? Like…decade.”

            “Of the 1900s? Oh…The ‘20s were fun…” he closed his eyes, remembering, a smile coming to his face. He hadn’t allowed himself to think back on his long life for a very long time…a lifetime, perhaps. “I used to hang around with the rum runners. It was very exciting! I was a dancer, too. I’m so tiny, I passed quite easily for a girl. I even cut my hair short.” He thumbed through the pictures. “I’m very glad things have changed, though…If I were caught dressing like a girl then, I would have been in some trouble…” he shrugged.

            “What about these? You still wear that hat.”

            “Oh, those are from 1889…I covered the newsboy strike. I lived in America, then. I lived in America until the ‘30s, then I came back here. I was born in Paris,” Feuilly listened, intrigued.

            “Wait…What year were you born?” he asked, his eyes wide. The photographs went all the way back to the 1880s, but in those pictures, Jehan appeared much the same age…perhaps a little younger, but not much, if any.

            “Oh goodness…I don’t remember…” he thought for a very long moment. “What year was Notre Dame built?” he asked.

            “The cathedral?” Feuilly replied, wide eyed. Surely Jehan wasn’t _that_ old… but he nodded. “14 something?” he guessed. Jehan rolled his eyes and gave him a playful bop on the head.

            “No, no, no! It’s much older than that! 1340, it was finished…no…1345…I must have been born in the 1350s, then…” he squinted, thinking hard, trying to remember. “1353. That’s the year I was born.”

            “How did you…I mean…you look like you’re 20!”

            “I just seemed to stop at 20, I guess…I grew up normally until then. I don’t know what happened after that, I just never got any older.”

            “Well what happened after that? Tell me everything!”

            “Everything?”

            “Yes!”

            “Well…I’ll tell you what I remember, how’s that?”

            “Please. Go on. I want to know.”  Jehan smiled, and nodded.  Finally, after all these many years, he could tell his long story.  He could tell it all.


End file.
